


Wherever You Are, My Heart Will Follow

by JonsaInTheNorth



Series: We Rise Together [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon returns to Sansa,  but Arya doesn't know what there is between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever You Are, My Heart Will Follow

Sansa shifts uncomfortably beneath her layers of wool and fur, wringing her hands under her cloak. The snow is thick and heavy all around, and the warmth she desires has yet to ride into the courtyard. She is still uneasy about the pomp and pageantry that Jon’s welcome home will bring.  His send-off was sparse, her and a few of his comrades’ wives, there to say goodbye, with Lord Giantsbane and Ser Davos besides. But Sansa needs him to see that she has done well by him, that Winterfell is prepared for the long nights ahead.

And so, all the servants, guards, and their respective families were asked to join the rest of the household, the visiting lords and all the knights. The entire scene is reminiscent of the last time a King came to Winterfell, although this time the apprehension is over what news he will bring and not what he will take away.

Arya stands to her right, surprisingly straight-backed and attentive for the arrival of their king. When she arrived at Winterfell’s door in a coat and breeches, Sansa was glad enough at her sister’s return to only insist that she change into finer clothes instead of more feminine ones. There is a sword strapped to her hip, and color in her cheeks. It is more family than Sansa ever could have thought to have again.

The doors to the castle open, finally, and a shadow passes overhead, dark and hulking. Before anyone can so much as look up and see it, Jon enters the courtyard. Sansa sweeps into a curtsy, and the household follows suit in their deepest courtesies even as they tremble. 

She hears him as he dismounts and lands in a crinkling layer of snow. Each step towards her is a new crunch of his boots against the elements. He stops before her, and motions for her to rise. 

Sansa’s eyes meet his, so warm despite their wintergrey. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

Something flashes- he is confused by her formality. Jon steps towards her, as if ready to pull her into a full embrace. She backs away and tugs on Arya’s arm quickly.

The little hidden truth might be a grave folly, but Sansa cannot bring herself to tell her sister that she is in love with the man Arya still insists on calling  _my brother_. 

Their quirks were soon forgotten as Arya leaps into his arms. The joy that spreads across his body would make anyone think that summer has come early.

“Rise, all!” Jon laughs, after spinning and setting Arya down. She is nearly to his shoulders now, although the last time he saw her he could tussle her hair with his hand. Jon’s awe has captured his features as he studies this near-grown woman that is his little sister-cousin. He looks at Sansa, and she answers with a demure smile.

“I trust your trip was successful, Your Grace?” She asks, refusing to drop the formality with Arya so close between them. “Will your guest above require any services from our men?”

“No, my lady, Viserion will hunt when he is hungry, and find some place to sleep. But if you could find accommodations for our new fighters, I would be grateful.” The others in his party have begun dismounting. There are more soldiers and knights than the small party he left with, all carrying shiny black weapons or swords of seemingly Valyrian steel. “And my meeting with my aunt proved more successful than I ever could have imagined. She will join us soon with the rest of her forces, once Euron Greyjoy is putdown in full.”

“Jon, is it true the Dragon Queen can breath fire?” Arya asks, nearly springing in the air, her words falling from her mouth faster than a raven’s flight. “I hear her eyes are red as blood.”

“Her eyes are Targaryen violet, and only her dragons breath any kind of fire, although it is at her command.” He laughs, but his face goes solemn. “I heard from Bran, in the godswood. Apparently my mother named me Jacaerys, although I will always be Jon, I think, even if Daenerys insists on legitimizing me.”

“Jacaerys.” Sansa lets the unfamiliar word roll over her tongue, a hiss like a dying flame. “No, Jon.”

“Now,” he says, flinging an arm around Arya’s shoulders and squeezing them tightly. “I want you to tell me all that I have missed these last three years.”

* * *

It is after their small feast that he manages to find her alone. Arya has captured his ear and attention all night, and he did not get to dance a single dance with Sansa. Her only interactions with her sister have been at moments when Jon has been whisked away to some corner by Lord Royce or another ally, and even then Arya is careful to keep her far from the high table.

Finally, the three find themselves together as the dancers still make merry, although many of their guests have gone to bed. 

“I am tired, family. I think I will retire now.” Sansa says, half as a diversion and half because, as the wide yawn hidden behind her gloved hand proves, she is truly tired.

Arya narrows her eyes when Jon offers to escort Sansa to her rooms. “But won’t you stay for a round of cyvasse?”

“I am tired too, little wolf. You will have to teach me this Essosi game come the morn.” He ruffles Arya’s hair as he pulls Sansa’s chair out.

Arya’s pout does not go noticed by either of the pair, and Sansa can’t help but place a kiss against her sister’s brow. “Go to your own chambers soon, Arya, or I may never be able to wake you in the morning.”

Jon fails to hide his laugh as Arya crosses her arms over her chest and glares at Sansa. He walks her out quietly, neither making a noise except for the sound of his chuckle.

The silence follows them until they are between their doors, the flames flickering   in the wall sconces the only light illuminating their dark hall. It is then that Jon cups her face and runs his thumb along the line of Sansa’s jaw.

“You haven’t told her, have you,  _my lady_?” He asks, a mild sadness tinting his words.

Sansa leans into his touch, appreciating the spot of warmth on her cheek where his hand meets her skin. Her fingers intertwining with his free ones. She closes her eyes before meeting his gaze. “How could I tell her? Arya doesn’t know, can’t know this part of us. She’d think us depraved.”

“Maybe we are, but I don’t care so long as the depravity is with you.” Jon drags his hand to the small of her back and pulls her flush against his body. 

“ _Jon.”_

His name on her lips in sin and desire, her wants and her needs all rolled into one. She meets his hungry lips as they capture her own, and wraps her hands into his thick hair. He smells like the sweat of travel and the pine of the godswood, and more importantly, he smells like home.

Jon’s hands travel her body as hers travel his, checking every inch to find something wrong, to make sure all is right. Jon kisses her thoroughly, as if trying to make up for all the time he spent gone. His hand brushes against her breast and she breaths in sharply, pressing her body harder against his chest, wanting to know what more there is to this-

“My eyes!” 

They both freeze when they hear her voice, turning in synchrony as fear flashes across their faces. Sansa is the one who pulls away, who steps towards Arya and tries to grab her hand. “Arya, I, we can explain, it’s not-”

“It’s exactly what it looks like!” Arya groans, words tumbling out of her mouth. “You two- Mother- he’s your  _brother_ , she’s your  _sister_ \- how could- Father-”

She cannot form a coherent thought about the pair, and while Arya is laughing as she speaks, there is something dark inside her sister’s eyes. Arya shakes her head and widens her eyes as she steps back, and before either can defend themselves again, she disappears into the shadows.

* * *

Three days before Jon is set to meet his aunt on the Kingsroad and head for Castle Black once more, Arya finally emerges from wherever she was hiding. She joins them for breakfast in Jon’s solar, uninvited and sour if her knitted-together eyebrows and frown are any impression. 

Sansa offers her fruit and bread in silence, unsure how to act for the first time in a sennight. After contemplating the skin of a winter apple and chewing half a slice of bread, Arya sets everything down.

“I don’t want to know the details, and I don’t want to see anything. Keep yourselves to darker corners than the main halls, and if, gods forbid, you marry, your first daughter ought to be named after me.” There is a twinkle in her eye as she says the last bit, although she was deathly serious in the start.

Jon and Sansa find themselves nodding slowly as Arya takes the rest of her bread with her and out of the solar. Their hands find each other underneath the table, and smiles fill both their faces as an invisible concern is lifted off their chests.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with my characterization of Arya- it's definitely more show!Arya than book!Arya but I don't know if it's particularly accurate. Let me know what you think and come fangirl about GOT and ASOIAF with me on [tumblr](jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
